


When The Snows Fall

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Nogitsune convulsed on the floor. They all watched in horror as it writhed, swaying unsteadily, before its face - Stiles' face - began to crack and it finally stiffened, falling to the ground and disappearing in a swirl of dust.Stiles suddenly felt faint. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed on the ground. His hands went to his stomach and came back sticky and a dark red. Huh. It was almost like he was been stabbed."Scott," he said weakly. "I think I'm gonna - "He touched his arm where there was deep imprint of teeth. His fingers were red and he stared at them, watching as they blurred out of focus, as dark spots took over his vision.Huh. Guess he was a werewolf now.And with that thought in his head, the world went black.-By changing the host of the Nogitsune, Stiles was left with a lot more than he bargained for. Now a werewolf he must learn to deal with his new form, and the guilt left behind by the Nogitsune. A story set between season 3 and 4 where Isaac never left, Scott and his pack have to cope with Allison's death, and danger once again threatens Beacon Hills.





	1. Change the Host

**Author's Note:**

> **_"When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives" - George R. R. Martin_ **

"Divine move," the Nogitsune said, striding down the corridor, a smile curving on its lips. "Divine move. You think you have any moves at all? You can kill the Oni, but me? _Me?_ I'm a thousand years old! _YOU CAN'T KILL ME!"_

Stiles moved backwards, tugging Lydia with him. His eyes never left the Nogitsune however - never left his own face. 

It looked so odd, seeing himself like this. Though a bit paler than he was, with eyes as black and fathomless as obsidian instead of a warm brown, it was still Stiles. Still a demon using his face. 

"But we can change you," Lydia said. 

The Nogitsune paused, its black eyes taking in Lydia's face. "What?" 

"You forgot about that," Stiles said softly. "You forgot about the scroll."

"The Shugendo Scroll," said Lydia.

The Nogitsune froze. "Change the host," it breathed, eyes widening slightly.

"You can't be a fox and a wolf," Stiles' said. 

The Nogitsune's nostrils flared. A dark look crossed its face, and it moved to take a step forward. 

But at that moment Scott was behind it, eyes red and one clawed hand grabbing onto its shoulder. Without hesitating, without thinking what the consequences could possibly be, he bit down hard into its arm.

The Nogitsune screamed as Scott held on. Stiles took a step backwards. 

From behind it, Kira suddenly appeared, her sword spearing it from behind and poking out the other side. 

The lights in the hallway flickered and with a heaving breath Kira pulled the sword out.

The Nogitsune crumpled to its knees. It's mouth opened and it made a strangled choking noise as a fly flew out of its parted lips.

It buzzed down the dimly lit corridor - loud, so loud it was making Stiles' ears hurt. He was starting to feel a bit light-headed. 

Then Isaac was there, breathing heavily. He had a box and he trapped the fly in it, closing the lid. 

The Nogitsune convulsed on the floor. They all watched in horror as it writhed, swaying unsteadily, before its face - Stiles' face - began to crack and it finally stiffened, falling to the ground and disappearing in a swirl of dust. 

Stiles suddenly felt faint. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed to the ground. His hands went to his stomach and came back sticky and a dark red. Huh. It was almost like he was been stabbed. 

"Scott," he said weakly. "I think I'm gonna - "

He touched his arm where there was deep imprint of teeth. His fingers were red and he stared at them, watching as they blurred out of focus, as dark spots took over his vision. 

Huh. Guess he was a werewolf now. 

And with that thought in his head, the world went black.

~~~

Stiles heard the voices before he opened his eyes. He heard someone standing over him, could hear the steady _thump thump_ of their heartbeat. 

He could hear the shuffling of cats and dogs pacing about cages somewhere far away. Could hear all their hearts, beating as one.

His eyes opened and he took in the face of Deaton. 

"You're awake, Mr Stilinski," the veterinarian said. "You have been out for quite some time."

"Quite some time?" Stiles choked out. His throat felt scratchy and rough, like he had swallowed sandpaper in his sleep. He looked down and saw that his shirt was cut off, his stomach swathed in white bandages. 

"Twenty four hours, to be exact. And you're lucky to have survived. Even with your new healing powers a sword through the stomach is difficult to recover from."

He sounded sad as he said that, and Stiles wondered if he knew anyone who hadn't survived.

"I'm a werewolf," he said, testing the words, seeing how they sound. 

_"I'm a werewolf."_

He sat up, hissing in the pain and ignoring Deaton's protests. He stood on unsteady legs, stumbling forward. 

The door burst open. Scott stood there, eyes widening when he saw him. 

"Stiles, you're awake! Are you -"he swallowed. "I mean, are you ok?"

There was a thousand things going through Stiles' head, a thousand things to say. 

"I'm ok, Scotty," Stiles said. "But you're not the only werewolf in Beacon Hills anymore." 

Scott flinched. "I'm sorry." 

"It's ok." He tried to smile weakly but it came out as more of a grimace. "Guess I should cool it with the dog jokes now, huh?" 

"Stiles - "

"I'm fine, Scott. You couldn't have known that - "he trailed off. 

"We thought you were dead. Lydia - she screamed Stiles. _Banshee scream._ And Kira thinks it's her fault, but it's mine, Stiles, all mine. I bit you, I - "

"Scott," Stiles interrupted. "It's not your fault. But it's over now, isn't it? And we're all ok."

Scott flinched. 

"Aren't we?"

Deaton placed a hand on his shoulder. "You have been out for a day, Stiles. It's been quite eventful I must say, but ultimately, it could have been far, far worse."

No. This couldn't be happened. Not after Allison. 

_Allison._ It all came crashing down on him then. Allison was _dead._

"Who, Scott?" Stiles pleaded. "Who else is dead?"

Scott swallowed. "Aiden." 

Stiles moved backwards, slumped against the metal surgical table. 

He'd killed him. He had killed Aiden. Like he had killed Allison. 

He had been too weak, too helpless. He had let the Nogitsune in. A small, horrible part of him had liked it too; had felt powerful. 

"I killed him, Scott," Stiles said. He knew, knew with a horrible certainly that weighed him down like a ton of bricks, that if he could control his shift, the truth of that statement would stare him in the face. 

His eyes wouldn't be a pure, brilliant, beta gold. They would be a cold, ice-blue and forever tainted.


	2. An Anchor

Deaton gave Stiles' permission to go home a little later that afternoon, after checking the bite on his shoulder (it had disappeared completely, only pale, unblemished skin left behind) and the wound on his stomach (a thick scab had crusted over that, a sure sign the healing was taking place). 

After advising him not to do any strenuous moving - he didn't want to rip open the wound again - Stiles could finally make his way out of the veterinary clinic. 

His mouth dried at the thought of going home. His dad was home. Stiles didn't know what Scott had told him - did he know? Know that Stiles - 

He swallowed thickly. 

That his son was a werewolf? 

Of course he didn't, Stiles thought. Scott would have left Stiles to tell that nasty piece of information himself. 

Stiles drove home slowly but still got to his house in a short space of time. He made his way to the front door, fished in his jean pockets for his house key and unlocked it. 

A women was staring over the fence of her house at him, a garden hoe in her hand and pale blue eyes full of unashamed curiosity. 

Stiles wondered what he looked like. He knew his eyes were probably red-rimmed, with deep, dark circles under them. He probably had blood on his shirt, staining black through the fabric.

He quickly stepped in the house, putting his key back in his pocket and calling, "dad?"

The sheriff appeared around the corner later. _"Stiles?_ Stiles, where have you been? Scott said you were sleeping at his and this Nogitsune business was taken care of, but I want to whole story and - "he stopped abruptly, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. "Is that _blood?"_

Stiles could hear his own heart beating. It raced, like a plane taking off on a runway, faster and faster, ready to jump out of his chest. It was the loudest noise in the room, amplified by his werewolf hearing. 

_Thump thump thump._

"Um, dad?" Stiles began. "I think you should sit down for this."

He ushered him into the living room, made him sit on the chair. 

"Do you want tea? I could make you tea. You could even have sugar - you might need sugar for something like this." Stiles darted out of the room, trying to regain his composure. He poured a cup with shaking hands, gave it to his dad before deciding it might be best if he wasn't holding something. 

"Oh no," his dad said, raising his eyebrows at him. "I know what you're trying to do, Stiles, you're trying to delay this conversation. Make a big deal out of it. Well, I'm the sheriff, you think I haven't heard it all?  
"At this stage - _werewolves, kanimas, darachs, kitsune_ \- I don't think anything you could say will surprise me anymore." 

"I'm a werewolf," Stiles blurted out. "Scott had to change the host of the Nogitsune - it couldn't be a fox and a wolf. And I must have still had some link to me because when Scott bite it, I got bitten too. Same when Kira stabbed it.  
"It might be because it was using my body but, well - "he took a deep breath, wringing his hands together. "Well, I'm a werewolf."

As the bemused smile slipped from his face and his eyes widened in shock, the cup dropped from Sheriff Stilinski's hands, pale brown liquid seeping into the carpet. 

~~~

Stiles didn't do anything that day. His dad let him troop up to his room and lay around all day and play on his Xbox, while he processed what Stiles had told him. Perhaps he knew he needed to be alone for a while. 

Stiles considered calling Scott but he couldn't bear the thought of hearing his voice or imaging his friend's distraught face. Alison - the girl he loved - was dead. 

Dead because of Stiles. He couldn't bear seeing it, knowing it was his fault. Knowing that he had caused that pain, did that to all of them. 

He couldn't see Lydia either. His stomach jolted unpleasantly when he thought of her, and it had nothing to do with butterflies or his long, unrequited crush. She had lost her best friend and her boyfriend. Lost them because Stiles was weak, too weak to keep the Nogitsune out.

He didn't have anything to say to any of them. Not Isaac - hadn't he and Allison had a thing going on? 

He couldn't see any of them, couldn't watch them mourn - mourn because of him. Because it was all his fault. 

Stiles stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror with disgust. He couldn't even look at his face. His face, which the Nogitsune used. His face, which had stabbed a knife through Scott. Smiled while he _twisted it._

It wasn't his face anymore, the Nogitsune had taken that away from him. Now when he looked in the mirror he saw a monster, saw the pain and havoc it had caused. 

Stiles gripped onto the basin of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt the metal crack under his hands, watched - numbly aware - as the wolf took control. 

He snarled, teeth lengthening in his mouth. His nails began to darken, growing long and sharp. 

His shoes became uncomfortably tight and he heard something rip as his toenails grew out, bursting through the soles of his shoes. 

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

He glared in the mirror and his eyes flashed a cold, electric blue. 

He took a staggering step forward,  
raised one clawed hand and shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces. 

He was filled with an intense, forceful anger: the sort of anger where he wanted - _needed_ \- to tear things bloody. 

He snarled at his reflection in the shattered pieces of glass. A thousand Stiles' snarled back.

He smelt blood. Heard a heartbeat down the stairs. Consumed by bloodlust, he strode forward, reached for the doorknob - 

And froze.

That was his dad. 

_His dad._

He didn't want to kill his dad - what was he thinking? Was he actually going to - 

Stiles felt sick. For a second - one, horrible, heart stopping second - the wolf had taken control and Stiles had wanted to see him hurt. See him _dead._

_Just like the Nogitsune,_ a voice in his head said. _Even without it, you want to kill people._

He sat down on the bathroom floor, all anger vanishing in that instant. He raised a hand to his eyes, watched as the claws vanished away. 

He felt his teeth shrink in his mouth, tasted something copper on the tip of his tongue. Had he bit down on it when his fangs formed? 

Stiles didn't want to lose control. He didn't want the feeling of not knowing what he was doing. Not again. 

He couldn't hurt his dad. He needed some way to control this. Control the shift. If he couldn't do if now, what would happen on the full moon? 

Stiles forced the pessimistic thoughts to the back of his kind, filled with a newfound determination. 

An anchor. He needed an anchor.


	3. The Werewolves of Beacon Hills

Stiles spent the rest of the weekend lying in his room. The only time he left was to go to the bathroom or get some food. He texted Scott when he noticed his phone was blowing up with messages, saying, _‘I’m fine, I just need some time to get my head around this. I’ll see you in school,’_ before turning it off completely. 

Despite doing virtually nothing, he didn’t get more than a few hours of sleep. Every time he shut his eyes he felt out of control; felt like the Nogitsune would sneak up on him in the night, take over his body, _possess_ him. He felt helpless and didn’t trust himself. Every time he shut his eyes, Allison flashed in his mind. Scott’s broken face. The pure, heart-wrenching _pain_ of Lydia’s scream. He had to count his fingers over and over again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming: _one, two, three, four …_

He was too scared to spend any large amount of time alone with his dad. He was scared of what the wolf would do – of what _he’d_ do. As the days passed, an uneasiness came over him. He was aware of the werewolf inside him, could feel it somehow, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

_I’m in control,_ he repeated to himself. _I wouldn’t hurt my dad … I wouldn’t hurt my dad …_

Perhaps his dad was his anchor, was the only thing keeping him sane throughout all this. But either way, Stiles still couldn’t look him fully in the eye, even after he said he was fine having a werewolf as a son. A _monster_ as a son. 

Monday came too quickly. One minute, Stiles was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom – he basically had the image trapped in his mind right now, had memorised every crack, every tiny detail – and the next there was someone shaking him by the shoulders.

Stiles instinctively flinched back at the touch, regretting it immediately. He opened his eyes and was met with his dad’s worried ones. 

‘Stiles, son, I’ve had enough of this,’ he said. ‘There will be no-more wallowing around in self-pity. You will get up, you will go to school, you will talk to your friends, and you will remind yourself that _none of this is your fault.’_

‘How isn’t it, dad?’ Stiles said. ‘How isn’t it my fault? I wasn’t strong enough to stop the Nogitsune, that’s my fault. I couldn’t fight it because I was too weak. _I killed people!_ How can you be ok with that?’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said again, softer this time, with what looked like sympathy in his eyes. ‘And you are _not_ weak. You didn’t kill people – that spirit did.’

Stiles didn’t bother correcting him this time – he was tired, he was so, so tired. It was too much effort to form the words so instead he climbed out of bed and trooped to the bathroom.

He counted his fingers again as he stood in the shower, while the water streamed down his back and reminded him vaguely of drowning. That seemed like a century ago after everything that happened. 

He avoided looking at his reflection as he brushed his teeth. His hands shook as he started up his jeep, made the journey to school. 

He parked, locked it. Glanced down at his fingers out of habit. Five on each hand. They were all there. Shaking himself, he made his way into the school.

The moment he stepped through the doors, Stiles felt dozens of eyes on him. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be popular, to not blend into the background. A year ago – hell, a couple of months ago – he would have relished in the feeling, but now it felt wrong. 

_I wonder what he knows about Allison,_ he heard someone say. _Isn’t he the sheriff’s son?_

_Well, he’s always been weird. Remember when he ran away?_

_Yeh, and then he showed up and coach was stabbed. You’re right, he is weird._

Stiles could hear everything, every whisper, every snicker. He could hear his English teacher pacing in her office, heard the slam of a locker, the buzz of voices.  
It was becoming unbearably loud, he didn’t know how Scott could stand it. It was like someone was slamming a drum right next to his head, over and over … 

_‘Stiles!’_

Stiles blinked and turned around. He spotted Scott, standing alone by his locker. Rubbing his sweaty hands on his trousers, Stiles made his way over. 

‘Scott,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you.’ 

When he meant to say, what he said in his head instead was, _I’m sorry I killed your ex-girlfriend._

‘I’m sorry too,’ Scott said. ‘For everything. I basically ruined your life. You said you didn’t want the bite and I turned you into – ‘

‘Don’t.’ 

A second passed. 

‘Okay,’ Scott agreed. He hesitated and Stiles heard his heartbeat jump a bit. When he spoke it was uncertain, with a nervousness his friend usually didn’t have. 

‘We’re ok, aren’t we Stiles?’

Stiles swallowed. The silence that stretched between them seemed to go on forever. There were some many things Stiles needed to say. He needed to tell him he didn’t deserve to be forgiven, that it would never be the same after this. That every time he closed his eyes he saw _her_ , and was scared to know if Scott did too.

‘We’re ok,’ was all Stiles said, however, and a small part of him believed it might someday be true.

Scott gave a weak smile and Stiles – suddenly feeling sick and nervous again – turned to his own locker, busying himself with opening it and getting his books out. He could at least pretend to act normal. 

‘So, I don’t know how you deal with this werewolf hearing thing, man,’ he said, keeping his voice even and light. ‘I’ve only walked in here and everything’s like – _kaboom_. I heard my neighbours having sex last night and let me tell you, that is the sort of thing that damages a person. I need therapy from that. _Therapy.’_

‘You get used to it,’ Scott said, voice full of amusement. ‘You learn how to block out sounds and tune in the ones you want to hear. It was bad at the start for me too.’ 

‘Oh, definitely. And that was back when we didn’t have a clue what was happening to you. You just went from plain old Scott McCall to lacrosse prodigy and creature of the night.’

‘Not to mention my alpha wasn’t sane either.’ 

Stiles hummed. ‘I wouldn’t say mine is sane. Not a psychotic lunatic, but far from sane.’ 

Scott almost dropped his chemistry textbook in surprise. ‘You mean – I’m your alpha?’

‘No, Scott, you’re my pet puppy. Of course you’re my alpha.’ 

‘Are you sure?’

Stiles rolled his eyes. ‘Obviously, I’m sure. I’m not saying that in a kinky way, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ 

‘You really aren’t funny,’ Scott said, punching Stiles in the arm. ‘You’re sick.’ 

‘That shouldn’t be news to you.’ Stiles caught something from the corner of his eye, his gaze immediately, almost subconsciously seeking it out. Perhaps it was after years of being infatuated with her but Stiles thought he would manage to find Lydia Martin blindfolded. 

She was standing beside her locker, the usual babble of girls who accompanied her absent. At first glance, Stiles thought she looked immaculate as always. She was wearing a short yellow dress, her strawberry-blonde hair down and curling in little ringlets around her shoulders. But as he looked closer – it became starkly obvious even after a few seconds – that Lydia was anything but fine. 

No amount of makeup could hide the tiredness on her face. She looked drawn out and older than her seventeen years: dark rings framed her eyes and she looking like she had seen a lifetime instead of a segment. 

‘We should go over there, shouldn’t we?’ Scott said, following Stiles’ gaze. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, feeling like he had a sharp of glass in his throat. His foot tapped nervously on the ground, his palms were beginning to sweat again.  
Clearing his throat, Stiles said, ‘Yeh. We should probably do that.’ 

They went over slowly, Stiles trailing somewhat behind.  
He couldn’t do this. _Holy shit_ , he could not do this. It was his fault. _All his fault._

‘Scott,’ Lydia said, voice cold and impassive. ‘Stiles.’ 

His name, coming from her perfect mouth, snapped Stiles to attention. ‘Lydia,’ he croaked. 

‘Are you ok?’ Scott said. 

She stared at him for a few, unblinking seconds. Stiles almost reeled back at the look in her green eyes. They looked _dead._

‘Just perfect,’ she snapped. ‘Nothing a mani and pedi can’t fix. And a trip to Macy’s. It isn’t like my best friend and my boyfriend are _dead_ or anything.’ 

‘That was stupid,’ Scott said, his shoulders slumping. ‘You’re not fine. None of us are, Lydia. But we’ll get through this together. All of us.’ 

_‘Right,’_ she said and it was clear from her tone that she thought very little of what he said. ‘As igniting as this conversation is, I’m afraid we have biology, boys. And I’m sure I’ll have to show our new classmates where we’re going.’ 

‘New classmates?’ Scott asked. 

Lydia turned to him, her eyebrows raised. ‘You didn’t know? Malia and Cora are joining today.’ 

~~~ 

It took Stiles’ brain a few minutes to process her words. _‘Malia?’_ he said in disbelief. ‘Malia _Tate?_ And Cora – _Derek’s_ sister Cora? I thought she hated school, hell, I thought she hated people. And Malia doesn’t exactly have great social skills either come to think of it.’ 

‘Yes, well, they’re probably somewhere in this building right now so you better believe it.’

‘I didn’t think Cora would bother with school,’ Scott said, echoing what Stiles as thinking. 

‘Derek probably made her,’ Lydia said, becoming impatient now, if tapping her heeled boot was any indication. ‘Anyway, what was she meant to do all day? Sit around, watch some TV? Kill a few squirrels?’

Stiles snorted. ‘I’m pretty sure Derek doesn’t have a TV in that loft of his. The fridge is barely functioning.’ 

‘Squirrels I could see though,’ Scott said, and Stiles nodded his agreement. 

Lydia let out an exasperated sigh and moved past them. Stiles watched her make her way down the corridor until she disappeared from sight. 

He turned to Scott, who was frowning. ‘You’re keeping something from me,’ he said. 

‘Keeping something from you?’ Stiles said. ‘Like what?’

_Like the fact I’m mentally unstable? Like the fact seeing any of my friends makes me want to dig a hole in the ground and climb in? Like the fact I can’t sleep? Can’t look in a mirror?_

‘Malia,’ Scott said. ‘Or Cora. You’re keeping something there.’ 

‘Oh.’ Stiles said, almost sighing in relief. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I always know,’ Scott supplied, rather unhelpfully.

‘Ok, don’t freak out about this, dude, but remember when I turned myself into Eichen House?’

Scott winced. ‘Don’t remind me.’ 

‘Malia was there – you know that much, right?’

‘And you became friends,’ Scott said slowly. 

Stiles scratched at the back of his neck nervously. ‘We kinda had sex.’  
There. He said it. No beating around the bush. 

There was a long, stunned silence where Scott simply stared.  
‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You lost your virginity – without telling me I might add – in a _mental asylum?’_

‘The basement of a mental asylum, if that helps.’ 

_‘The basement of a mental asylum,’_ Scott echoed. Then he blinked. ‘Right. Why didn’t I see this coming? It’s so _you_ , Stiles. I’m surprised it wasn’t in school.’ 

_‘Hey!'_ Stiles said indignantly. ‘I’m pretty sure your had sex in a car, so you can’t – ‘

He froze. Instantly wanted to kick himself. Allison. He couldn’t (shouldn’t, _wouldn’t_ ) bring up Allison. Scott looked like he had been slapped in the face. 

‘I need to go,’ Stiles blurted out. ‘Class and all, you know.’ He waved his hands wildly about to signify some sort of unexplainable point before darting down the corridor Lydia had gone, the only sound to greet him the pound of his racing heart. 

~~~

Stiles managed to stay mostly to himself the rest of the day by sheer luck. Whispers still followed him around – he was sure the same was happening to Lydia, Scott and the others – but no-one said anything to his face. Perhaps they had been warned not to. 

He didn’t see Isaac in school at all that day, for which he was thankful. Not seeing Ethan was another blessed relief.

Stiles didn’t know what he could say – what anyone could say – to the werewolf. What could you possibly say to someone who had lost their other half? Stiles imagined it would feel quite like losing an arm or a leg. But unlike a missing limb, where the wound would heal over in time - still gone but not painful – Ethan would feel Aiden’s absence for the rest of his life. 

‘Stiles, stop avoiding me,’ Scott said, jolting Stiles from his thoughts, where he sat, drawing in the margins of his copybook and trying to tune everything out. 

‘I’m not avoiding you.’ 

‘Yes, you are. That’s what you do. Stop avoiding your problems. You’re not the only person who feels guilty, you know.’ 

‘I know.’ Stiles said it so softly human eyes wouldn’t have been able to pick it up. ‘But you didn’t kill her.’ 

The implication was obvious. It wasn’t Scott who had killed Allison. _He_ had.

_‘Stiles.’_

Stiles could hear the gentle scraping of wood as Scott moved forward in his seat, trying, pleading with Stiles to understand him.

But how could he? Despite everything, no-one else knew what the Nogitsune had been truly like. They didn’t know what it had been like trapped in his own head, so close, yet so far away from gaining control. Wanting to, needing to, but at the same time _not._

‘Class, please settle down,’ their Geography teacher, Miss Browne, said. She was a small, mousey haired, women that had the sort of voice that put students to sleep. ‘We have two new students joining this class and I hope you make them feel welcome.’ 

Immediately, the room filled with hushed whispers.

‘Why are they joining now?’ Stiles said. ‘It’s halfway through the day.’

‘Maybe Cora had werewolf business,’ Scott shrugged. ‘Or they’re not in any of our other classes and we didn’t see.’ 

Stiles nodded at the same time the door opened. Malia walked in, Cora slightly behind her. Malia looked better than any time before in which Stiles had seen her. Her hair was down, clean and shiny, and framing her face. 

‘Ladies, please those two seats behind Mr Stilinski and Mr McCall. I’m sure you’ll settle in quite well. Have you had your education elsewhere?’

‘I spent eight years in the woods, if that’s what you mean,’ Malia said, sitting down and firing her bag on the floor.

_‘The woods?’_

‘It’s a boarding school,’ Stiles interjected quickly. ‘Very private, you know. You wouldn’t have heard of it.’ 

‘I haven’t.’ 

As the teacher turned away, Stiles shared a look with Scott. 

‘Malia,’ Scott began. ‘You can’t go around saying you used to live in the woods.’ 

‘Why not?’ she crossed her arms defensively. ‘Maybe then I won’t be forced to go to this stupid school. The last time I did maths I was learning how to _divide.’_

Stiles frowned at that. 

‘She’s got a point,’ Cora said. ‘And the school years nearly over anyway. I think it’s stupid.’

‘Of course you do,’ Stiles said. ‘Why are you here anyway?’

Cora scowled. ‘Derek. He thinks I should complete my education.’

‘And you agreed?’

She gave him a flat, unimpressed look. ‘I live in a dark, miserable house with my brooding, overbearing brother and my pyscho uncle who killed my sister. Would you seriously say no?’ 

‘When you put it like that … ‘Stiles said, trailing off as Cora turned away to direct her attention to Scott. 

‘Oh, and Derek has a message for you,’ she said. ‘He was speaking recently with Mr Argent and Isaac. Paying his respects, you know.’ 

Stiles recoiled at her blunt words and saw Scott do similar. He felt like she had ripped a bandage off an unhealed wound, taking skin and lumps of flesh with it. 

But still Cora continued, not paying any mind to their reaction. 

‘He said to tell you that Allison’s funeral is on Wednesday.’  
~~~


	4. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ****  
>  _“Let me take you down_  
>  Cause I’m going to Strawberry Fields  
> Nothing is real  
> And nothing to get hung about  
> Strawberry Fields forever" – The Beatles  
>  __  
> 

Lydia didn’t know how she managed to get through the week. She felt like she was in a dream, floating, in a vague, foreign space of time, a reality to absurd to be real, but every time she pinched herself she couldn’t wake up.

If it wasn’t for her Mom, wasn’t for her grades, and her deep disappointment at anything less than perfect, Lydia reckoned she would have ditched school entirely.  
What was the point without Allison?

All her life, school was the most important thing ever. Popularity was what mattered, more so than her grades or showing her true self. Those small minutes in between classes – were the boys winked and flirted or rested their arms upon her should and Lydia pretended she was annoyed – were what mattered. 

It made Lydia feel good. She craved the attention, loved the respect, loved the way people would sit up straighter when she passed or turn and give their friends a look. _There’s Lydia Martin,_ the look would say. She lived for the designer clothes, the shopping trips where she spent as much as she pleased, the parties, the expensive makeup. 

_But now?_

Now Lydia just felt very small and scared, and it didn’t matter if she was wearing Chanel perfume and Jimmy Choo shoes. The only thing that mattered was that Allison was dead.  
The girls she hung out with and the boys who played Lacrosse or held big parties every weekend didn’t matter anymore. These days, they sniggered behind their hands when she passed or gave her odd, frightened looks because now – just like Stiles and Scott – Lydia Martin was an outcast. And she had no real friends anymore, no-one who really understood her. Because Allison was dead. 

How could she be dead? Wasn’t the world meant to stop? Wasn’t something meant to happen?  
How could Allison be dead? 

Lydia couldn’t accept it. she couldn’t believe it. 

Allison was _dead_

_Dead. Dead. Dead._

She was buried under the ground, rotting. Insects were crawling over her pale, lifeless face, trying to burrow under her eyelids, nibble at her flesh. Or maybe she wasn’t dead. Maybe she was pounding on the coffin, mouth open in a silent, horrified scream as she gasped and choked for air. Maybe she was begging for someone to let her out but the world wouldn’t come. Maybe -- 

The beaker fell from Lydia’s hand and shattered on the table. The hum in her ears stopped and she blinked. 

‘Miss Martin?’ An old, startled teacher squawked. ‘Are you ok?’ 

Lydia looked around. Faces – blank, fuzzy faces– looked back at her. She didn’t trust her voice so she nodded. 

The teacher tutted. ‘Clean it up then please. You could have had something dangerous in that beaker and then where would we have been?’ 

Lydia didn’t like to think of where they might have been. Maybe it was somewhere safe, and warm, and smelt of flowers. Maybe Allison was there and she could laugh, and smile and all would be right again. 

Lydia picked up the pieces of the beaker. Her fingers were bleeding, shards of glass sticking out of the skin. Huh. When had that happened? 

‘I think I’m going to go and get cleaned up,’ she said, raising her hands slightly to show, before fleeing from the classroom.  
It was quiet in the hallway, and her heels clicked as she walked. Lydia had to resist the urge to turn around and leave several times.  
She wanted to look for Allison. But then she remembered. Allison was gone. 

It was funny, sometimes, how denial worked. Lydia would consider herself intelligent (top of her class, actually, despite what Stiles liked to taunt her with) and knew there was no way possible Allison was alive. She had seen the wounds. She had seen her cold, dead body in Scott’s arms. And she had felt it – a part of her inside had ripped and teared and Lydia had _screamed._

The hallway smelled of flowers. It was so strong, so intoxicating, it flooded all her senses leaving Lydia stunned for several moments, unable to breathe or speak or do anything else expect take in the smell. 

Then she heard it. Laughter. It seemed to come up out of the very floor, seemed to travel down the hall, come in the windows, reach down from the above.  
It was sweet, feminine laughter. Familiar laughter. 

‘Lydia,’ a voice said. Allison said. ‘Lydia, are you ok? Are you ok. Lydia?’ 

_Allison. Allison. Allison. Allison. Allison._

‘You _are_ Lydia, aren’t you?’ 

And then Lydia opened her eyes. The world spun, it lurched. She was still standing in the hallway but there were no flowers. The only thing she could smell was cleaning detergent. And there was no Allison. 

Malia Tate was standing in front of her, confusion in her brown eyes. 

‘Yes. Yes. I am Lydia. I mean, that’s my name.’ 

‘You were just standing there,’ Malia said. ‘It was really strange. Your eyes were closed and you were whispering – Allison, I think it was? She was the girl who died, wasn’t she?’ 

Lydia ignored all this. ‘Was that you, Malia? Was it you calling my name?’ 

‘Yes. I asked if you were ok but your heart went mad. it was like a deer or a rabbit when it knows its been cornered. Is that it? I’m not a predator, you know. At least, I don’t think so. Not anymore. You don’t need to be afraid.’ 

_‘I’m not afraid!’_ Lydia snapped. Her head was throbbing and the world still hadn’t settled down. 

_What was wrong with her?_ It was Malia talking the whole time. Not Allison. _Never_ Allison. 

‘Why aren’t you in class?’ Lydia said, rubbing her temples. 

Malia wrinkled her nose. ‘It was maths. I don’t understand it. if I was in the woods I wouldn’t be calling my prey _x_ or _y_. What’s the point in that? and I don’t remember how to do any of the things but – ‘she scowled. ‘My dad doesn’t care.’ 

‘You can borrow my notes,’ Lydia said. ‘I don’t have any from primary school but you could get someone to teach you. Maybe Scott or Stiles would – ‘ 

‘ _Stiles?_ Is Stiles good at maths?’ 

Lydia frowned and some of the mist in front of her eyes cleared. ‘Yes, I suppose he is. Maybe that would help distract him from Allison’s death.’ 

‘She must have been really important to your pack.’ Then Malia frowned, and her eyes seemed to shine blue for a moment. ‘Was she his mate?’ 

‘His – what?’ 

‘His – ‘It took Malia a moment to find the word. ‘His girlfriend?’ 

Lydia almost laughed. ‘No, she wasn’t his girlfriend.’ 

‘He smells the worst of it. Of the sadness. And something else but I don’t know what it is. I’ve never came across it before.’ 

_It’s probably guilt,_ Lydia thought. _Anyone could see it on his face, plain as day._

‘Malia?’ Lydia said. ‘What do I smell of?’ 

Malia frowned for a moment, then she moved forward so close it was uncomfortable. And she sniffed. 

‘You smell like sadness too, Lydia. But mostly you smell _confused.’_  
~~~ 

School couldn’t have ended fast enough before Lydia was home, retreating to the safety of her bedroom. She tried not to think of Allison and distracted herself with her school-work, staying late up into the night. 

She tried not to think of Aiden either, because her stomach did something funny every time she did that. Despite everything – despite saying it was nothing serious, or she was just messing around, in it for a bad boy or something to take her mind off Jackson – Lydia really did like Aiden. 

And she didn’t know how to feel about that. 

She didn’t know how to feel about anything anymore. Only numb and hollow. She was still waiting for the shock to hit her.  
Maybe Malia was right. She was confused. In the head. She felt like she was going mad. 

It was a little after midnight when Lydia’s mind slowed down.  
She put down her pen, stretched out her cramped fingers and climbed into bed. It wasn’t long before she drifted off.  
~~~ 

__Lydia was standing in a graveyard. It was dark and the only light came from the moon in the sky, full and blinding white. It glittered off the headstone of the grave closest her, illuminating the worlds Allison Argent._ _

__Lydia shivered. It was so cold it seemed to be physically biting and her thin nightdress did little to shield her from it._ _

__‘Hello?’ Lydia called. Her voice was swept away in the howl of the wind._ _

__Her teeth chattered and her strawberry-blonde hair whipped about her face. She squatted down in the wet grass. Her feet were bare._ _

__Allison’s grave was just as she remembered. The flowers were still sitting neatly against the headstone, the marble still gleamed white and pristine. There were no weeds sprouting up from the soil. It was dark and even. Lydia ran her hand over it._ _

__The graves around her seemed to stretch tall, like ghostly figures. Lydia could almost hear the sighs of the dead, restless they were, and close by. Beneath the screaming of the wind, Lydia thought she could almost hear voices, crying out._ _

__But this was just a dream. An odd dream, Lydia would admit. But even since she found out her classmates were supernatural creatures everything was odd._ _

__The clouds above shifted and the moon was suddenly hidden. It was so dark Lydia couldn’t see anything. Her fingers gripped onto the cold, smooth headstone as she peered into the blackness which seemed to stretch on forever._ _

__I’m dreaming, she thought in her head. This is just a dream._ _

__But despite that, the whole situation was terrifying. She was frozen, though from the cold or from fear she didn’t know. She could only stay there, teeth chattering. Then suddenly the wind stopped howling. The graveyard was silent, eerily so._ _

_‘H – hello?’ _Lydia said.__

__A figure came through the darkness – a figure so bright, so ethereal, it physically hurt to look at._ _

__‘Lydia?’ the figure said. ‘Are you safe?’_ _

__Allison looked exactly as Lydia had last saw her. Death had not diminished her beauty and she lit up the entire graveyard; even the moon retreated in her presence._ _

_‘Allison,’ _Lydia said, fear and relief and longing so overwhelming she began to cry. ‘Allison, I’m safe.’__

__‘It’s so cold,’ Allison said. ‘I didn’t think it would be so cold. I’m glad you’re safe.’_ _

__Lydia stretched one hand out. She wanted - she_ needed - _to touch her. But the hand passed right through Allison who smiled sadly. Lydia noticed Allison was dressed in the clothes she died in. She wore the same purple dress and the wound in her chest was still gaping, her fingernails still crusted with blood.__

__‘Allison,’ Lydia said again. ‘Are you real?’_ _

__‘It’s so lonely,’ she said. ‘I can’t – I can’t – ‘_ _

__Before her eyes, Allison was beginning to vanish. She didn’t shine so brightly now and was beginning to dim, to fade away into the blackness._ _

_‘Allison!’ _Lydia called. She tried to grab her hand and it vanished in a cloud of smoke.__

__‘It’s too – far away – ‘Allison said._ _

__Lydia could only watch, helpless, as she was engulfed by the darkness._ _

_‘Allison,’ _she cried. ‘What’s too far away? What’s wrong? Don’t go._ Please don’t go!’ _

__And just like that, the graveyard was empty, and Lydia’s distraught cries were snatched away by the wind._  
~~~_

Lydia was woken up by sunlight creeping through her blinds. She opened her eyes and took in her bedroom, the furniture illuminated by the half-light. Her throat felt rough and scratchy and her face was crusted with tears. 

Her dream was so vivid it vanished any traces of sleep Lydia may have had. Wide awake, she sat up. Her hands groped around her bed-side cabinet for her alarm clock. Frowning, she puled them back. 

Her fingernails were filthy, mud and dirt caked under them. Lydia stood up suddenly. She looked down at her feet – bare, they were, cut and muddy, as though she had spent the night wandering outside through a forest or a garden or a – 

A graveyard. 

And Lydia _screamed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so sorry! I could give you a bunch of excuses but nothing would be quite enough for my severe procrastination. I just want to say i'm seriously sorry this chapter took so long! 
> 
> I have ideas for a new fanfiction I’m working on and have sketched the outline of it. It is set in the Harry Potter universe if anyone is interested, and the first chapter should be up in the next couple of weeks. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it anyway, as here we have the first real hints of the storyline coming through.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of a fic I'm working on. This will be long, and take place after Season 3B and before season 4. There will be a plot to this story but it is a slow-build.
> 
> I have put this as gen as there _are_ relationships in this story but they are by no means the main focus of it. 
> 
> **_The main plot of this story is about Scott, Stiles and the others dealing with their guilt and loss and getting stronger and closer because of it._ **
> 
> If you spot any errors or mistakes please mention them in the comments below. I hope to update every Sunday evening.


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